


Thorn as Heavy as Lead

by sassyjumper



Series: Post-finale Road Trip [3]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassyjumper/pseuds/sassyjumper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the series finale.  On their way to New Orleans, House and Wilson stop by Okefenokee Swamp, for some onion rings, alligators and Pig Men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thorn as Heavy as Lead

 

“Sure. If there’s one place I love to hang out, it’s swampland,” House said, lifting his cane in the air for emphasis.

Wilson said nothing. He was sitting cross-legged on the hotel bed, hunched over his iPad and apparently engrossed in travel plans.

“I’m also excellent at outrunning alligators,” House added.

Wilson looked up. “Well, we’ll be going right by the refuge on the way to New Orleans. Don’t you want to at least stop and see if it’s doable?”

House blinked. It amazed him how often Wilson seemed to disregard reality.

As if to illustrate further, Wilson looked back to his iPad, pointing an index finger at House. “The Okefenokee Swamp,” he read aloud, “is one of the seven natural wonders of Georgia.”

“There’s _seven?_ ” House said.

“Apparently.”

“What are the other six? Dirt, sand, the Piggly Wiggly?”

“There’s nothing natural about Piggly Wiggly,” Wilson replied, putting his iPad aside. “Listen, we can just get on the road and decide if we want to stop once we’re in the area.”

“I’ve already decided,” House said, moving to grab his backpack from his bed.

Wilson opened his mouth, but House was too quick. “It’s not just the swamp and the alligators I object to. It’s also the swamp people. Have you seen _Deliverance?_ ”

Wilson pulled a face. “They didn’t go to a swamp.”

“Oh, right. They went to a whole other part of Georgia,” House mock-agreed.

Wilson gave him The Eyes, a weapon he’d been brandishing with increasing frequency. Oddly, House had yet to build up a tolerance.

He sighed. “Fine. We’ll check it out. But if a toothless banjo player gets fresh with you, don’t expect me to intervene.”

Wilson gave a small smile. “I wouldn’t even ask.”

House felt a smile forming in response, so he dipped his head toward his bag. “Let’s get going then.”

As unexcited as he was about trekking into swamp territory, House did feel some relief that he and Wilson were back to easy banter.

After the haunted hospital incident, the next morning had been weird. House had woken first, and promptly moved to his own bed. Then once Wilson had gotten up, he’d seemed determined to pretend the arguing, truth-telling and _feelings_ had either not happened or needed no further mention.

House had been OK with that, but it still made for an awkward day.

This morning the tension seemed to have eased—probably because they’d both stayed in their own beds last night, House reasoned.

He couldn’t explain why he’d felt compelled to climb into bed with Wilson the other night. And truthfully, he didn’t want to analyze that particular decision just yet.

But there was a bigger truth that was getting tougher for House to ignore each morning. The way this trip had started—the motorcycles, the unkempt hair, the “Cancer’s boring”—had been dishonest.

It had felt good, like a weight being lifted, in the moment House cooked up the plan. It felt even better when Wilson readily agreed to it. And it always felt good when they just talked about nonsense and ignored the rest of the world.

But the simple fact was, Wilson was dying and House was already dead. And they couldn’t keep ignoring how fucked up that was.

Still, as they made their way to the inn lobby, House decided he could keep up the pretending a little while longer. Hard as it was, it beat reality.

 

*******

 

They’d decided to ride south toward Jacksonville, then head west to travel along the Gulf Coast to New Orleans. It was such an aesthetically displeasing route—flat, lifeless land littered with signs for Shoney’s, Cracker Barrel and Po’ Folks—that House was actually relieved when Okefenokee came into their sights.

Why Wilson was so interested in a swamp, House didn’t know. But it was in step with his pattern of daily event planning.

House had thought Wilson might stop after their last tourist activity went awry. But here they were, at the Okefenokee welcome center, where Wilson was talking to a woman about boat tours as House sat with their bags.

“Another tour?” House had groused when Wilson brought up his agenda in the parking lot.

“Do you really think it’s a good idea for us to paddle around in a canoe by ourselves?"

House hadn’t been able to argue with that, especially once Wilson started quietly humming the banjo theme from _Deliverance._

A sudden burst of laughter pulled House from his thoughts. Wilson and the welcome center lady had apparently found something hilarious about wetlands or wildlife preservation.

_Of course,_ House thought.

“Y’all have a good time, now!” she called to Wilson as he ambled away, brochures in hand.

As he approached, Wilson waved the swamp literature at House. “Okefenokee Joe,” he said cryptically.

House wrinkled his brow. “What?”

“That’s the name of the guy leading the next boat tour.”

“How coincidental.”

“Isn’t it?”

House sighed then made a _gimme_ gesture at the brochures. As he handed them over, Wilson said, “Paula thinks you’ll be fine.”

“Oh well, if _Paula_ thinks so…”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “It’s a flat-bottom boat, very stable. There’ll only be a small group, and there should be enough room for you to stretch your leg.”

“Sounds fantastic,” House said, with only a cursory look at one brochure.

Wilson narrowed his eyes. “Really?”

“Yep,” House said, starting to stand. “It might even be enjoyable.”

Standing just inches from Wilson now, House could almost see his mental wheels turning.

“O-kaayy,” Wilson said after a pause. “We should head for the docks then.”

“Let’s go,” House said, shouldering his pack and starting for the doors.

“House,” Wilson called after him. When House turned around, Wilson was looking at his sheepishly. “Um, thanks.”

House nodded. “Don’t mention it…Seriously.”

Wilson smiled before grabbing his own bag and following House out the door.

 

*******

 

“Shoot, son, you shoulda brought bug spray,” Okefenokee Joe said, after Wilson had slapped his own neck for the fourth or fifth or tenth time. House had lost count.

The air was oppressively heavy, but they'd both donned long-sleeved button-downs over their t-shirts to ward off the biting insects. Wilson, however, had always been attractive to mosquitoes, and they now seemed to be attacking every inch of what little skin remained bare.

Joe laughed then spoke louder for the benefit of all eight of his passengers. “Bugs don’ even bother to bite me no more. Ol’ codger with sour blood. Shoot.”

The other passengers laughed politely. Joe turned his attention back to House and Wilson, who were seated closest to him where he stood operating the motor.

“But they don’ seem to be bitin’ your friend, neither,” he informed Wilson, who smiled tightly in return.

“I am also an old codger with sour blood,” House explained.

Joe laughed a big belly laugh. “Naw,” he said, “you ain’t a codger till ya git to be my age.”

“I’ve always been confused about the codger threshold,” House said, wrinkling his brow.

“Play nice,” Wilson warned under in his breath.

But Joe just laughed again. “Where y’all from?”

“New Jersey,” Wilson said. House noticed him cringe slightly as soon as the words were out. Wilson had been having a particularly tough time keeping his mouth shut about their trip and their backgrounds. But then, Okefenokee Joe was unlikely to be a threat.

“New Jersey!” Joe exclaimed. “What is it with all ya folks from New Jersey movin’ down ta Florida? Y’all are everywhere down there.”

“I honestly don’t know,” Wilson said, slapping his neck again. “We’re just passing through on our way to New Orleans.” House saw him flinch again.

“N’awlins!” Joe was apparently astounded by location names. “Now _there_ is a city.”

“It is,” House agreed.

“Whach y’all headin’ there for?”

“Bourbon,” House said.

Joe laughed. “Good choice. Sho’nuff.”

House had to admit, he kind of liked this guy. He vaguely reminded him of a swamp version of Ridiculously Old Fraud.

But House was fairly sure Joe was not as old as he wanted everyone to believe. He had wrinkles and a gray head of hair and beard, but he was also sturdy and strong. The “old” swamp guy image was probably good for business.

And indeed, Joe started to play the part as the boat slowly wound along a path among the tall, Spanish-moss-covered cypress trees. Eventually, he cut the outboard motor so they could drift in silence on the still, black water.

“Y’all know there’s a lotta legends ‘bout these waters?” Joe began.

He paused dramatically so that the only sounds came from the frogs, and whatever was moving in the water. Maybe alligators, but House had already learned that you don’t really know an alligator is around until its eyes emerge from underwater.

Joe went on. “They say there’s a lotta ghosts and such in these parts.”

House turned to Wilson. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“One of my favorite legends is the Okefenokee Pig Man,” Joe told the group. “I never seen him personally, though.”

“I imagine that’s because the Pig Man doesn’t exist,” House intoned.

“House!” Wilson whisper-scolded.

“Well,” Joe took off his trucker cap to scratch his head. “Just cuz I ain’t seen some’in’ don’ mean it don’ exist.”

“Sho’nuff,” House agreed. “But if it also makes no sense, and if the people who believe it exists are idiots, those are two good clues.”

“Aww,” Joe said with a chuckle. “The Pig Man is just another name for Bigfoot, and lotsa folks say they seen Bigfoot. Who’m I to tell ’em they ain’t seen what they think?”

“That’s a good point, Joe,” Wilson interjected.

House looked at him, expecting to get the bitchy “not one more word, mister” look. But Wilson was staring straight ahead, like he was expecting to see something.

“Joe?” House said, never minding that their guide was just launching into a tall tale about the latest Pig Man sighting. “What would you do if your best friend said he believed in Pig Man?”

Wilson turned sharply to look at him. House responded by turning fully to face Joe.

Joe shrugged. “I don’ have a best friend—‘cept my wife, of course.”

“Well,” House hesitated. “You must have some other old codger who you go fishing with, or make moonshine with.”

“Sho,” Joe nodded. “I got some fellers who get up to go fishin’ now and then. But I don’ have a best friend. I’m a grown man. Ain’t best frens just for kids?”

“No,” House and Wilson replied in unison.

Joe chuckled again.

House sighed heavily. “OK, let’s just say you have a best buddy. And that buddy suddenly, out of nowhere, decided he thinks Pig Man may be real.”

Wilson exhaled loudly, ominously, through his nose.

“Well, that’s fine, I s’pose,” Joe said. “Like I said, it ain’t my business to tell other folks what they seen.”

“But your friend hasn’t seen him,” House clarified. “He just believes, for no reason at all, that Pig Man is real. And he’s decided to go into the swamp—by himself, at night—to find Pig Man.”

“Well,” Joe took his cap off again to scratch. “I might not advise that, at night.”

House and Wilson were both looking at Joe now, waiting. The rest of the passengers had begun murmuring among themselves.

Joe shrugged. “I can’t tell my buddy what to believe. I wouldn’t be much of a friend, would I?”

“Thank you,” Wilson said.

“But,” Joe added, “if my buddy were up to some’in crazy, I’d try to stop him, sho’nuff.”

“Thank you,” House and Wilson said, together.

House turned to him with a scowl. “What are _you_ thanking him for?”

Wilson sat up straighter. “I dunno, something about stopping your crazy best friend from doing crazy things struck a chord with me.”

“Well, this is _my_ analogy,” House informed him. “Find your own wizened swamp guy.”

“Joe?” Wilson said, leaning forward to look around House and get better eye contact with their guide. “If your friend just said it was possible that Pig Man was real, would you refuse to let him believe that?”

Joe looked surprised. “’Course not.”

House leaned forward to block Wilson out of Joe’s view. “Joe?” he demanded. “What if your friend was about to throw himself into the swamp with the alligators, in the belief that Pig Man would save him and carry him off to Pig Land, where he would live forever in Pig Peace? Would you let him?”

There was only silence in response. Joe and everyone else on the boat were looking at him. Even the frogs seemed to have fallen quiet.

“Well,” Joe said slowly. “Truly, I can’t imagine a buddy o’ mine doin’ that.”

House sighed. “Exactly.”

He turned to sit fully forward in his seat again and looked down at his shoes. He didn’t dare glance at Wilson, but he could feel those familiar eyes on him.

Joe cleared his throat and started on his standard Pig Man story again. House kept his head down and waited until he sensed Wilson’s eyes move away from him. When he chanced a glance, he saw that Wilson had turned his head away, looking toward the cypress trees and their weird, wide jumble of roots that were visible above the black water.

House just studied the back of Wilson’s head for a few moments, until something Joe was saying caught his attention.

“Lotsa folks who seen him say he ain’t really that scary a’tall. It’s more like he’s sad, and just looks kinda lonely.”

House felt a little twinge in his chest. Unbidden, he pictured a tall, hairy, Bigfoot-looking Pig Man—just wandering the swamps, alone and sad. It was ludicrous, and House wanted to mock the idea, at least in his head. It was the oddest feeling when he found that he couldn’t.

 

*******

 

“These onion rings alone were worth the price of admission,” House said, holding up a ketchup-drowned example.

He and Wilson were sitting at a picnic table outside the park “snack shack,” where the menu consisted of about eight deep-fried items and sweet tea.

Wilson just picked at his grilled cheese sandwich.

“If you’re not gonna eat yours…” House said.

“Just take them,” Wilson replied, not looking up from his paper plate.

House grabbed a fistful of rings and plopped them on his own plate before saying, “Quit moping. I said I was sorry.”

Wilson huffed a small laugh. “But you’re not.”

House paused. “No,” he replied carefully. “I’m not sorry for what I said. I’m sorry you’re taking it so hard.”

Wilson laughed a little louder this time. “No, you’re not,” he said bitterly. “You want me to believe what you believe. That there’s nothing after this.”

Wilson shook his head then looked off to the side. “Maybe there is nothing,” he conceded. “But I don’t know.” He turned back to House. “And you have no right to try to take away my not-knowing.”

House put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Your not-knowing? You’re choosing to pass on any more treatment. I want to be sure it’s not based on any delusions.”

Wilson narrowed his eyes. “You don’t get to decide whether there’s an afterlife or not, House.”

House leaned in a bit more. “If you’re giving up because you think you’ll see your nana, or your cancer kiddies…or Amber—”

“Don’t,” Wilson said sharply.

House sat back a little. He was silent for a few moments as he drummed his fingers on the wood table. When he spoke again, he tried to keep his voice casual. “Maybe you even think you’ll see me again.”

Wilson looked at him, eyes widening a bit in surprise. “That…would be a merciful god, indeed.”

House couldn’t help letting a small laugh escape.

Wilson’s expression softened. “Actually, even if they’d let you in, you probably wouldn’t go, just on principle.”

House bobbed his head a little side-to-side, as if considering. “I’d probably go in if you were there,” he said before he registered how sappy that statement was.

Wilson smiled faintly, then looked down at his sad sandwich.

“We can’t keep going on like this, House,” he said quietly.

House felt his stomach do a slow somersault. “Like what?”

Wilson sighed. “You know. We can’t keep ignoring what’s happening. After New Orleans, we have to figure things out. We have to figure out what you’re gonna do after…I mean, we’ve been using my credit cards, putting everything in my name—”

“I know,” House cut him off. “Logistics. Don’t worry about it. I can take care of myself.”

Wilson shook his head. “I need to know you’re set with something—”

“Before you die,” House finished for him. “Got it.”

Wilson gave him The Eyes again. House sighed and scratched his eyebrow with a thumb. “Listen,” he said, quieter. “I know. Really. But…after New Orleans, like you said. We’ve still got a lot of time.”

Wilson looked at him for a beat before nodding.

“OK, then,” House said. “So can we drop the deep discussion for now? I’ve got a mountain of onion rings that needs my full attention.”

Wilson nodded again before giving his grilled cheese another half-hearted try.

It was funny, House thought, how Wilson believed _he_ was ignoring reality.

House just had a different view of reality than Wilson did. In his world, he’d get Wilson to try another round of chemo. And a few months from now, Wilson would be in remission, not getting ready to die.

House knew that simple vision was probably too hopeful. But he’d spent the better part of his life shying away from hope, and it hadn’t really worked out. At this point, what else did he have?

If Wilson could have beliefs about what was possible, House thought, so could he.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> There is an Okefenokee Joe! But I made up the part about his being a boat tour guide.
> 
> Title is from Mary Oliver's "Morning Poem."


End file.
